Pivotal Moments
by I Feel Possessed
Summary: A series of one shots capturing the pivotal moments in the various stages of Callen's life.
1. The Catalyst

**_The Catalyst_**

He hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral, to say goodbye to someone who for some reason had actually wanted to be his friend. It would be too traumatic, the social worker had said. The doctor and psychologist had both agreed. Maybe they were right. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the punches, the kicks, the spurts of blood and sheer pain etched on Jason's face. Every time he opened his eyes he could see his foster father start towards him, fist raised and a manic yet glazed expression on his face. He had been taken to hospital as a precaution and checked for signs of physical abuse. There were no bruises on him, no fresh ones anyway. Jason had simply opened the door at the wrong time, accidentally knocking the bottle of whisky from their foster father's hand. It had been three quarters full and had smashed on impact with the hard wooden floor of the kitchen. Sickly sweet amber nectar had formed a pool around Jason's feet and shards of glass lay scattered. Callen could not see the look of shock and fear on Jason's face but he knew it was there. The instant he heard the bottle break his heart was in his mouth and he had almost run into his foster brother. They had been heading to the yard to play. Jason had instinctively reached behind him and pushed the younger boy back in to the living room. There was an eerie silence. Neither boy dared to even breathe and both remained motionless, Callen's eyes darting towards the safety of the single armchair in the corner of the room. There was a crunching sound as a heavy boot landed on the broken glass and the spell was broken. Callen ran for the cover of the armchair and watched Jason turned on his heel and run towards the front door. A loud roar emitted from their foster father's mouth, glass ground in to the floor and the kitchen door slammed shut behind him. Within two paces Jason had been grabbed by his collar and thrown against the wall. It was four o'clock in the afternoon.

There must have been sirens wailing from the police cars and the ambulance. LAPD officers must have broken down the front and back doors. There would have been shouting and guns drawn, pointed at his foster father. He would also have been in the line of fire. Jason was covered in blood and lying lifeless in the middle of the floor. His face unrecognisable. His foster father had thrown the armchair aside and raised his fist high, ready to beat down on him, to knock him out with his first blow. Callen had backed in to the corner, tears silently streaming down his face, elbow bent high above his head, his forearm protecting his face. He waited for the punch that never arrived. Seconds later a hand had gently touched his arm and he remembered flinching and shouting. Swearing and screaming and crying. The hand remained in place, firmly forcing him to lower his arm and helping him to his feet. A police officer shielded the nine year old from the sights in the room and led him outside through the kitchen, but it was too late. Callen had witnessed everything. Every punch and every kick was ingrained in his memory. Every scream and every whimper was echoing though his ears. Jason dying was etched in his eyes.

The welfare of the surviving child was the only concern of the emergency services and after a cursory check he was taken straight to the E.R. The earlier hysterics had quickly subsided, replaced by silence. He was thoroughly checked for signs of physical abuse by a female doctor and was quizzed about the old bruises on his forearm and torso which had almost faded. Almost. A fight at school, had been the answer. A stock reply that wasn't believed. The fingers that had painfully clamped his arm the previous week were clearly a man's. He was dressed in a hospital gown and wrapped in a thick blanket. Despite the heat of the summer evening Callen was shivering and could not stop. His social worker had made an appearance and demanded he be released; he had suffered no injuries and shouldn't be taking up a much needed hospital bed. Callen could not bring himself to smile when his doctor ordered his social worker to leave the hospital; he was to be sedated and would be staying the night in the children's ward where he could be safely monitored all night.

The sedative had to be injected and Callen did not like needles. His eyes had widened in fear when the nurse swabbed his arm and he literally jumped off the bed as the tip of the needle brushed his shoulder. It had taken his doctor and another nurse to talk him back in to bed and explain why he needed the injection. Callen had not believed them and argued he could fall asleep on his own. An impasse had been reached and his doctor did not want to traumatise the young boy further. Instead he was promised ice cream and hot chocolate before lights out, but if he wasn't asleep within the hour then the sedative would be non-negotiable. Callen had readily agreed. He could fake being asleep. He was long practised in the art of deceit when it came to sleeping. It had saved him from all kinds of trouble. The ward lights had been dimmed and voices became murmurs. Callen closed his eyes and abruptly opened them, sitting bolt upright. Jason. His protector. His friend. His sparkling green eyes, full of mischief. Full of blood. Swollen shut. Purple bruises on his face, a broken nose, cut lip. Callen closed his eyes slowly and slid back down the bed. He was shaking and breathing rapidly. He could feel his heartbeat start to race. It should have been him, he thought. He had told Jason to run to the yard. Last week he had been the one Jason had protected from being beaten with a cane. Callen had done nothing to return the favour. He had hidden in the corner, behind a chair and watched as Jason was beaten to death.

The voice of his doctor barely registered. The pinprick of the needle was not felt. Callen allowed himself to fall in to the blackness. He never wanted to re-emerge.

The next day he had been released back in to the care of the welfare state and sent to a children's home. Callen was physically uninjured and a child psychologist confirmed his traumatic experience may leave him with a few nightmares and maybe a touch of insomnia. He had read Callen's medical history and decided that a course of mild sedatives would help alleviate any symptoms.

Callen felt numb, withdrawn, like the events were not real, had never even occurred. Except when he closed his eyes. Or opened them. He liked the sedatives, they removed him from reality. Numb was good. But that ended ten days later. Jason's funeral.

Jason's mother had attended the funeral but she had not wanted Callen there. He was a reminder that her son had died whilst another had lived. It was more passion than she had ever displayed towards her son in life. Callen had snuck out of school after recess and run to the cemetery. He hid behind a tree and observed his foster brother being laid to rest. Leaning his head against the trunk Callen closed his eyes; he hid behind the armchair and witnessed his foster brother being killed. The memories flashed vividly in front of him. If only he had...He slowly collapsed to the ground, his back scraping against the rough bark and a single tear ran down his cheek. He should have helped. He should have grabbed - anything - and saved Jason. Callen wiped his face with a dirty hand and opened his eyes. He exhaled slowly, lowering his shoulders and staring at Jason's grave. He made two promises to himself. He would always try to protect everyone. And he would never allow anyone to hit him again. Ever.


	2. Most Wonderful Time of The Year

_**The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year**_

Once upon a time Christmas had been an event that Callen had not looked forward to or enjoyed. He had vivid memories of Christmas's at various children homes, opening a shoe box full of toys that had been donated by well meaning charities. He remembered forcing a smile of gratitude and exchanging disappointed glances with other children. Some Christmases had been spent with foster families but as he had never stayed with any for very long, his present experience went from receiving nothing to once receiving a gift the parents had taken from their own child. Callen smiled wryly at the memory. That hadn't gone down well at all. Needless to say a fight had broken out and the other boy had been left with a split lip and a bloody nose. Callen ended up with a black eye and had been swiftly delivered back to the children's home. He could safely say that was one of the shortest times he had spent with a family.

'What's making you smile?' Sam asked, catching his partners expression from the corner of his eye.

The two were sitting in heavy traffic, eager to get home after their final case before the holidays. The Challenger's engine was chomping at the bit, desperate for her throttle to be opened up and to put some miles between the Mission and a few days of annual leave.

'Just thinking.' Callen replied.

''bout what?'

'Christmas.'

Sam nodded, pleased that a Christmas thought could make Callen happy. He liked to credit himself with some of the changes he had seen in Callen over the past ten or so years. He knew there were many traits which were ingrained within his partner's soul that would never change; his lone wolf tendencies, his random acts of impulsiveness and his desire to keep secrets. But the one area he knew he had made a difference was by treating Callen as family, as his brother and making him an uncle to his children in every way that mattered.

'Care to share?' Sam was an optimist at heart although he did not really expect Callen to open up - not without some coercion.

Callen looked at Sam and raised his eyebrows. Sam would never understand aspects of his past and he certainly had no intention of sharing. He could look back now and find the humour in certain situations, but as a child? His Christmas experiences had been varied - bad, good and indifferent. He remembered naively looking forward to Christmas when he was about five or six. The school he was at was celebrating with nativity plays, Christmas carols and local church services. The other children were talking about the presents they had asked from Santa and Callen had found himself swept up in the excitement. It had been a painful lesson to learn, when on Christmas day the children's home had distributed two small gifts to each child. Returning to school after the holidays had been worse. Everyone was talking about how many presents they'd been give and how many chocolates they'd managed to eat. They gloated about how Santa knew how good they had been and had delivered everything on their lists. He didn't understand what he had done that made Santa think he was naughty and undeserving. He figured that whatever it was, it must have been the same reason why his mommy and daddy didn't want him. It was around then that Callen began to realise that he could not interact with other children outside the home. They were different to him.

'That smile's fading G...' Sam observed the microscopic changes in the man he knew so well.

'Well, not everyone in the world has a happy Christmas.'

'Very true. You know Kensi said that Deeks helps out at a soup kitchen at Christmas time? Giving a little back to the community.'

'Good on Deeks.' Callen said, knowing he should really do something similar, maybe something to help the thousands of children on the streets or in care.

'This'll be a special Christmas, with your - with Garrison still in town.'

'Guess so.'

Sam rolled his eyes in frustration. 'G, you've spent years searching for your family, for answers. Now you finally have them you don't seem to want them.'

'It's just...well...'

'Difficult, awkward? I'm sure it's not a stroll in the park for Garrison either. Christmas is a time for families, for forgiveness.'

Callen pursed his lips. Forgiveness was not something he was willing to consider. His father abandoned him and his sister at such a young age, thinking they would be better off without him. And then had only come to LA to save his former lover. They were strangers to each other and in some ways may always be.

'I know these things take time,' Sam continued. 'But maybe you should give your old man a break. Give yourself a break too. Look you can always come over if things get too much.'

'Thanks Sam. I might just take you up on that.'

There was no doubting it, his experience of Christmas had been a roller coaster of emotions. As a teenager he had swung between being angry and indifferent about the big day. It was the indifference which had won out for many years after. In his twenties and thirties he found he could take it or leave it. He could join in the Christmas spirit with parties, drinking and dinners yet he was just as happy having a quiet drink on his own. His partnership with Sam had challenged and changed his perspective on the festive season. His incessant nagging, blackmail and bribery had eventually seen Callen spend Christmas day with the Hanna family, initially just to shut Sam up. The first time had seen him slightly nervous. Sure he knew Michelle, Aiden and Kamran but still, he felt like he was intruding on a sacred family occasion, much like he had done as a child. He had been ready to make his excuses and bolt but his worries had been unjustified. He was treated as another family member and ordered to peel the sprouts, set the table and to keep Kamran entertained and out of the kitchen. There were no emotional highs or lows, just normality for which he was eternally grateful.

'Get any more cards from Janvier?' Sam asked with a half amused and half concerned look on his face.

'Every year,' Callen nodded. 'It's on the mantel and _not_ next to the photo of your family.'

'Hmm. Really don't see why you get so amused about cards from Janvier. But I'm glad it's not next to my family, G.'

'See, I am sensitive to your needs.'

'Yeah, when it suits you. So what about Anna?'

'What about Anna?'

'You invite her to Christmas dinner?'

'Yep.'

Sam smiled and shook his head.

'Last year it was booty calls with Joelle, this year you have your father and your - Anna - over for Christmas. Keep this up and you'll have your half sister and nephew next year. Not forgetting Arkady. The full monty G.'

Callen met Sam's smile with one of his own. It was true. Christmas had always been a fleeting moment of every year, a reflection of his own life; an event that wasn't permanent so why waste the effort. He thought about the conversations he'd had with Deeks earlier that day, and reflected on how he'd said that Christmas had been a constant amongst the chaos of his family life. Traditions had to start somewhere and he looked down at the tangled bunch of Christmas lights Deeks have given to him. Maybe this would be the start of his Christmas tradition.


	3. What a Tangled Web We Weave

_**What a Tangled Web We Weave**_

' _Michael is not your son.'_

' _I wanted you to suffer like I had after you left.'_

The two sentences reverberated around Callen's head. He didn't have to entice the words from Kristen. He had not had to trick or tease out the truth by revealing any version of his own truth. She had just decided to put him out of his pain and misery. It was that honesty that had hit him to the core. It had felt a bit like a sucker punch. Sure he'd had plenty of those in the past, but not for a while. Not for a number of years. The last time had been...Callen pushed that thought to the back of his mind. He'd been driving around the streets of Los Angeles for the last thirty minutes, slowly making his way back to the Mission before he called it a night. Well, before he crashed on the large, comfy sofa that Hetty had seen fit to leave in the bullpen. He drove past Marina Del Rey and continued to drive north along the coast for a further five minutes before pulling over. With a view of the ocean, he switched off the engine to his cheap, red, undercover car and sighed. What had he been expecting to hear? What had he wanted to hear? That he had a child? Finally his own flesh and blood? His own family? And where would that have left him? The only father the boy knew was Tommy. Would he really have stepped in and destroyed that family unit by insisting on being part of Michael's life? Did he expect Kirsten to rush back in to his arms? And then he would have to tell her the truth and he would be thrown out on his ear. His job meant his life was on the line pretty much every day; what would happen if he died? Maybe watching Michael grow up from afar was a safer option, albeit a hard one to chose.

But no, Michael wasn't his son so it was irrelevant and yes, deep down he secretly hoped he was the father, petrifying as the thought may be. And yes, he was also secretly relieved when Kristen admitted he wasn't the father. Callen stared ahead to the horizon where the clear blue California sky met the azure blue of the Pacific. Everything ahead of him seemed so calm and tranquil, but he knew it to be an illusion. Not far beneath the surface lay turmoil; currents and swells - and sharks. He figured it was a pretty good analogy of his own outlook. He could fake that everything was OK and quite often believed the lies he told himself. That was one reason he hated the mandatory post-mission debriefs with Nate. If he truly allowed their operational psychologist to dip inside his mind, he was scared of what might be found.

His undercover role of Jason Tedrow had been unbelievably enjoyable. He was a crooked Navy Military Police officer who wormed his way in to the friendship of three sailors suspected of planning the electronic heist of millions of dollars. He had promised to sabotage the investigations in to them in exchange for a cut of the money. The character of Tedrow had quickly merged with his true identity even though Callen remained focused on the end goal. Chaos and excitement coloured their evenings out, many of which threatened to end in fights with locals and several did. He had earned their trust and respect, which was cemented when he started dating John Donnelly's sister Kristen. Undercover relationships were easy as nothing was real - or at least nothing should have been real. Callen had told her endless lies about himself, his job, his feelings...except maybe not. Maybe he had told her some truths..? He rested his elbow on the window frame and rested his head in the palm of his hand. A cooling sea breeze could be felt and despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun, Callen shivered.

He could not get away from the fact that he had used Kristen for his own ends. He had played with her emotions, manipulated her, so much so that she had fallen in love with him. Callen shook his head slightly. The lines between his real and undercover self had again blurred. She had fallen in love with Jason Tedrow. The trouble was that it hadn't only been Jason who had fallen for her, Callen had too. He had allowed way too much of himself in to his alias.

He clearly remembered the last day he had seen Kristen. It had been four hours before NCIS had swooped in and arrested Perez, Gale, Donnelly and Tedrow. He knew the plans, knew he would never see Kristen again and yet had still acted as though he was off for a normal day's work. He knew the sudden arrest of Kristen's brother and her boyfriend would leave her heartbroken, confused and distraught. After Tedrow's arrest, the alias had been locked away and the next day Callen had returned to the team and worked on other cases. He had also locked away the memories and his feelings for Kristen. Until he had spoken to John earlier that day, he had no idea that she had written to him in prison and even attempted to visit. Just before he was shot, John had told him that he broke her heart - badly.

Callen closed his eyes and leaned back against the car's headrest. Undercover missions finished the moment he returned to being G. Callen. He tried not to think about the negative effects the cases had on those left behind. If he did, he would slowly drive himself insane. He knew Kristen had heavily fallen for him but he'd always tried not to think of the pain he caused. His own feelings were complicated. Yes he had fallen for her too, but was it really love? He wasn't sure. Guilt - definitely, love - possibly, or at least his version of it. Although how much love could there be when the whole relationship was built on lies? Today had reopened old wounds on both sides. Callen tried to shrug off his guilt. However he felt, Kristen would be feeling much worse. The return of Jason Tedrow coincided with her brother's murder and her fiancé's shooting. Maybe he was just bad news. Callen opened his eyes suddenly, squinting slightly at the light and wondered to whom he was referring; G. Callen or Jason Tedrow?

And that was the crux of the matter. His own identity. Who was he really? He had no idea, no framework, no history. At the age of thirty nine he had to ask Hetty what he should do and which truth to tell. Eventually he had plucked up enough courage to tell Kristen his real name but that was only after she had revealed the truth about Michael. He was relieved when she stopped him. Maybe it was easier for her to continue to believe his lies. That way she couldn't be hurt all over again.

He believed that Michael wasn't his son. He had to. It was a lesson in love that yet again had been learnt the hard way. Kristen was the last woman he'd slept with and he was better off being single. Callen made a silent vow not to get involved with another woman whilst undercover. Again.


	4. Spycraft

" _I've been watching you for quite a while. You have great potential Mr Callen, and I have a plan for you."_

The engine of the jet black Crown Victoria purred softly as the car drove through a maze of leafy suburban roads at a stately pace. There was no rush to reach their destination, though there was an intense desire from one of its occupants to increase the speed and the distance from their place of origin. Callen sat in the rear, acutely aware that his every action and reaction was being closely assessed by his new guardian. She had finally introduced herself as Henrietta Lange, or 'Hetty' as she insisted he call her. Hetty had advised they were heading to Encino where she had a 'modest' house with a pool. Callen wondered who else lived there and what they were like. He couldn't imagine that his new guardian had her own kids so he guessed he would once again be fighting for attention amongst others his age. Or even better, he could just melt into the background and become invisible. Instead of answering, Callen had simply nodded an acknowledgement to her words and there was a gap before Hetty spoke again. This time she introduced her driver Curtis, a former marine Hetty employed as her chauffeur and to maintain her property. He was on call twenty-four-seven and lived in the annex. Curtis turned and smiled at Callen as they stopped at a set of lights. Callen stared at him suspiciously. He had encountered ex-forces men before and they had been seriously screwed up with drinking and drug problems, which meant they had a temper. And that inevitably led to physical abuse. Callen made a mental note to avoid Curtis at all costs. The man looked powerful and he would hate to be on the receiving end of his fists.

He stole a sideways glance at Hetty, who was sat next to him in the rear of the car and tried to get a read on her. The words of the arresting LAPD officer still rang in his ears. That bastard thought he should be tried as an adult for deliberately driving the stolen car directly at them; he had said it was 'assault on an officer with a deadly weapon'. Callen subconsciously tapped his fingers together, wondering what his sentence would have been if all his crimes from the past few hours were accumulated. He ran a mental tally; assaulting a prison officer, escaping juvie, stealing a car, driving without a license and yes, he did deliberately drive the car at the two officers, as well as resisting arrest. Add that to the fact he was only weeks into a three month sentence for breaking and entering (additional charges of persistent truancy had originally been dropped), and Callen reckoned he would have been lucky to be out of prison by the time he reached twenty five. He knew Hetty must have some major contacts for LAPD to drop all charges against him, and to get him released into her custody rather than social services. Callen returned to staring out the window, shaking his head slightly and wondering what conditions would be imposed on him. There would be a curfew, definitely, and he would have to go back to school. Maybe she would make him earn his keep, and he'd have to help with the maintenance of her house - and that would mean he'd be working with that ex-marine...But she did say he could stay as long as he liked. What if he only stayed for a few days and then left? Would he be returned to social services or re-arrested? His biggest questions though, surrounded this potential he apparently had, and why she had been watching him. That just sounded freaky. What was in it for her? In his experience, do-gooders always had ulterior motives.

Callen had remained silent throughout the drive. He alternated between staring at his hands which were loosely clasped together in his lap, and staring out the window. After they had left the roads of West Hollywood, the landscape had become increasingly unfamiliar. Only once had he ventured in to this part of Los Angeles, and that was when the Rostoff's had insisted on taking Callen and their young daughter on a sight-seeing tour. The entire family had marvelled at the type of properties in which the rich, famous and infamous lived. Callen knew they were driving towards an affluent area but still not the richest part of town. He remained expressionless at the passing scenery, trying not to show that he felt both intrigue and trepidation as to his future. Gated driveways provided a glimpse of the decadent houses that were spaced many hundreds of meters apart. The car slowed, passing a beautiful whitewashed mansion. The next house was not even visible from the road; the high wrought iron gates were open and the car turned left, gliding gently up the long driveway and coming to a halt in front of an enormous red bricked mansion.

Callen ran his fingers through his dirty, scruffy hair and turned to look at Hetty. She met his stare and placed a hand on his forearm, nodding in the direction of his door. Callen instinctively flinched and pulled away, fumbling for the door hand just as Curtis opened it for him. He climbed out and quickly stepped away from the man and the car. He did not see the look of pain which flitted across Hetty's face or the shared glance with Curtis. Instead he stared at the building, stretching his shoulders and wincing slightly as he remembered the earlier punches he'd received from the prison officer. Another reminder he thought, not to trust anyone in a position of power.

Callen was led through the wide and opulent entrance to the kitchen, which seemed to be almost as large as the grandiose hallway. Hetty asked him to sit whilst she poured him a fresh orange juice and placed a plateful of cookies in front of him. The house was quiet and Callen could instantly tell there was not another child living there. He was unsure if that made him feel nervous or safe. Hetty sat down opposite and clasped her hands together, resting them on the table and leaning forward. Here it comes, Callen thought, the rules.

'Mr Callen, I'm sure you have a lot of questions running through your head but first I want to give you the choice of exploring the house and the grounds. I always think that while first impressions can sometimes be misleading, the feel of a house, a home is instinctive. Please, feel free to enter in to every room, garage, nook and cranny. When you return I will be here to provide some of those answers you're looking for.'

Callen took a long drink from his glass, using the time to process her words. No rules - yet - and a choice of talking or exploring. He grudgingly admitted that Hetty's words made sense, although he liked to think that he usually judged people correctly within seconds of meeting them. Still, some time to himself to think things over would be good. He stood up, grabbing a handful of cookies and holding them tight in his hand.

'I'll explore first. Everywhere?' he added, unsure about the freedom he had been granted.

'Everywhere,' Hetty affirmed with a smile. 'Every room, upstairs and down. And every garage and outbuilding. Your room is at the top of the stairs, first on the left. You have an en suite bathroom.'

Callen nodded in understanding and moved away from the table. He stuffed a cookie in his mouth and walked back to the hallway, dropping crumbs as he went.

Hetty's smile tightened a little as she watch him leave. She was convinced Callen would feel comfortable and safe enough in her home and she certainly wasn't bothered about the mess the fifteen year old boy was already making. But her concerns were twofold. Firstly that he wouldn't like the answers she had to give and secondly, that she might actually be too late to save him from himself.

Callen spent several hours exploring the house and grounds and even then, he was certain he had missed crucial areas. The rooms were filled with weird and wonderful antiquities that looked very expensive. If he needed to runaway, there was plenty he could steal that would set him up for a number of months. In many of the rooms books adorned floor to ceiling bookcases and covered a wide variety of topics and languages. He had opened cupboards in the formal dining room, taking note of the drinks cabinet and the high stock level of whisky and brandy, resisting the immediate temptation to take a sneaky swig. His bedroom was three times the size of the one in his last foster home. The bed was large and comfy and the furniture was already filled with clothes his size. There was a small black and white TV, a desk and a cushioned wicker chair. The en suite contained a bath with overhead shower, basin and toilet. Callen looked out his bedroom window and was pleased to see that a vine and drain pipe were in grasping distance. Easy escape, he thought. The windows were unlocked with a key which he quickly pocketed. He turned back to the door and again saw a key in the keyhole, with a bolt higher up. He turned the key and slid the bolt home. Satisfied they both worked, he unlocked the door and pocketed the key, nodding in silent approval.

Callen moved outside and stared at the grounds from the front of the house towards the road. There was no way he could explore everything in one afternoon. He wandered down the driveway, pleased to see the gate was still open. His eyes followed the high boundary wall and he instinctively moved to explore them. There were plenty of nearby trees he could climb if he needed to leave without being seen. With the front of the property loosely covered, Callen returned to the garages that were situated next to the house. He rolled up the shutters and stepped inside to see two cars covered with tarpaulin and the black Crown Victoria from earlier. He took a peak underneath the first sheet, before pulling it all the way back and letting out a low whistle. Callen gently ran his hand along the body of a silver Shelby Cobra. It looked in immaculate condition. Having circumnavigated the car, he opened the driver's door and sat down with a huge smile plastered across his face. He caressed the steering wheel and pumped his feet against the pedals. Without even thinking he moved his hands beneath the wheel and felt for the wires that would enable the car to be hotwired. He thought that maybe there were advantages to him staying here, at least for a while.

Having pulled the tarpaulin back over the Cobra Callen swiftly moved to the rear of the house where he encountered a tennis court and a small wooden summer house which overlooked a swimming pool. It was all very impressive but not of much interest to him. What did interest him was a brick outbuilding that stood toward the rear of the gardens that contained work benches and tools. Yet again the door was unlocked and Callen spied an old transistor radio. When it failed to turn on, he grabbed a screwdriver and prised it open, determined to make it work.

Hetty was still sitting at the kitchen table when Callen finally returned from his exploration. He had been gone a number of hours during which Hetty made herself countless cups of tea whilst receiving updates from Curtis who was covertly spying on the teenager. Overall, Hetty was pleased that her new charge was interested enough to take the time to thoroughly investigate his surroundings and not just bolt.

'Well?' Hetty asked. 'Do you think you would like to stay here for a while?'

Callen shrugged his shoulders in reply. 'Maybe. For a bit.'

'Good.' Hetty took the noncommittal answer as an affirmative. 'Now that's settled why don't we have that chat. We can stay here or sit wherever you feel most at ease.'

Callen thought for a moment. 'Here.'

'Very well. Now what would you like to know?'

'What plan do you have for me?'

Hetty laughed. 'Straight to the point. I like that. Well Mr Callen before I come to that, let me tell you a story or two. Some of them may seem rather farfetched and somewhat unbelievable, but I would very much like you to respect me enough to let me finish.'

Callen narrowed his eyes in suspicion. This had to be something really freakish. And story time? Did she think he was a child or something? But he figured he owed her for saving his ass earlier and if nothing else, he wanted to enjoy a place of refuge for a few nights.

'OK,' he agreed.

Hetty took a deep breath. No matter how many times she had given vulnerable youths versions of this story, she was always unsure how it would be received. She had been laughed at and ridiculed. Some had insisted on leaving as soon as she finished. Others had humoured her. Of those who stayed, only a few turned out not to have the capacity required. The majority of her chosen ones had eventually successfully graduated from her 'off the records' programme and served their country through clandestine work.

Despite his initial apathy towards Hetty's story time, Callen gradually became immersed in a world where bad habits and criminal skills were used to protect and serve innocent civilians the world over. There seemed no strings attached to these stories which mainly focused on an individual or small group of people who were highly trained. Callen found himself leaning forward on the table, his hands cupped around his face, almost living the moment. Fiercely fighting the bad guys and adopting various techniques to win, from street fighting and bar room brawls to martial arts. He was perched on a roof top in the middle east, patiently waiting in the heat of the midday sun, scoping out the opposite building, ready to take the sniper shot to assassinate the USAs most wanted man. And then he was assuming an alias to infiltrate a gang in order to bust a child smuggling ring.

Dusk had fallen by the time Hetty had finished and she studied the fifteen year old boy in front. She could always tell within the opening minutes whether her subject matter was of interest and Callen had clearly been transported to a reality far removed from his own life. His eyes had widened in excitement at the escapades and his jaw dropped in amazement at the successful gambles in dubious situations. All she had to do now was promise him he had the potential to live such a life.

'Callen,' Hetty started. 'These are not just fictional stories. These are real life accounts from men and women who work for a variety of different intelligence agencies throughout the world.' Hetty refrained from using the words 'law enforcement', realising they might be deal breakers with her potential protégé. 'Many of the people out in the field, infiltrating criminal and terrorist groups and recruiting foreign intelligence assets have been purposely selected and trained based on their raw talents. Skills such as being able to read people and situations, the ability to adapt instantly and adopt different personas and aliases. Acquiring data through illicit means and blending in with foreign nationals like a native, speaking the language, living the culture. Having the physical skills for hand to hand combat and the confidence to make split second decisions. And overall, being mentally suited for undercover work. Many of these people started life on the wrong side of the tracks for reasons that were not their fault. And you are one such person, Mr Callen. In you I see the potential to develop the skills you already have already acquired to enable a career in the intelligence arena.'

'What do you mean?' Callen's head was spinning and he was struggling to grasp exactly what Hetty had to offer him.

'I mean that you already have the raw talent and skills to develop in to a first class agent and serve your country. There are many different avenues that would suit you; espionage, surveillance, intelligence gathering, covert operations. I can train you in all of those and if you work with me, the world will literally be your oyster. You can work independently abroad, adopt different identities and ultimately, the end goal is always to save innocent lives. To protect those who are unable to protect themselves.'

'I have a criminal record, I was in juvie but you want me to be a spy? Like in the CIA? Like _law_ enforcement..?' Callen leaned back in his chair and wanted to laugh. It made no sense - except it sort of did...

'You can't change your past but I am a firm believer that you can change your future. If you can learn from your mistakes and move forward. You could decide not to change, to continue living your life as you have been and that would be your choice. But you need to ask yourself where you would be in two, five, ten years time if you don't make that change now?'

Hetty paused to let the words sink in. She knew Callen was bright despite having reviewed his abysmal school reports. His personal circumstances had naturally led him to a life where criminal activities and lying became the norm to stay alive. She had also been privy to several of his psych evaluations and understood that a main driver for his actions was to protect people, although that desire often manifested itself in varying degrees of violence.

'Or you can decide to embrace the future.' Hetty continued. 'I can guide you into taking control of your life and forging a career that will help stop innocent people suffering through oppressive regimes, gang warfare, people smuggling, drugs, terrorism. You, Mr Callen have great potential to make a difference to so many lives. I would like you to give yourself the chance to prove it to yourself.'

'It sounds - weird.'

'I know. There is a lot to take in and I don't expect you to make a decision here and now. What I do want to do is present the details to enable you to make an informed choice so you can take control of your future.'

'What details? You haven't actually said what you will train me in.'

'You will need to complete your education. There is a high school several miles away which I believe would suit you better than a private school. Although that can be arranged if you prefer?'

'School sucks.' Callen scowled. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he had just missed so much schooling that he was always behind and that meant being kept down a year or in a class full of other kids that were just as troubled as he was, or just plain thick.

'I'm sure it does Mr Callen, but this is non-negotiable. How do you expect to become fluent in languages, understand the histories of the modern and ancient worlds and the culture of societies in Europe, the Middle East or Russia? Mathematics and science are used in everyday life to analyse intelligence, asses danger and develop solutions. The broader your education, the better equipped you are to assume the identity of a political journalist in say Columbia, or a university lecturer in Moscow. You must realise that training will take place over a number of years and there will be various milestones reached whereby you can explore your own avenues. You will be trained in hand to hand combat skills and martial arts. Volunteer and paid work provides exposure to a variety of industries and different types of people. You can develop technical and engineering skills, first aid, knowledge of drugs and psychology. But you still need an education.'

'So how do you know I'm not gonna tell everyone that I'm gonna be a super spy?'

Hetty gave a short laugh. 'Who do you think will believe you? Your peers will think you're a crazy liar and you have the history to prove them right.'

Callen flashed Hetty a cold look and let out a short breath of resignation. She had him trapped. He really had no choice but to say yes, otherwise he might as well kiss his freedom goodbye. Deep down he knew this was probably the only chance he had to stop his life going down the toilet. Callen scraped his chair back and moved to his feet.

'You think you've got it all worked out don't you? You're the one that's crazy.' He allowed his frustration to show as he raised his voice and walked towards to kitchen door.

'So have you decided or are you going to sleep on it?' Hetty remained calm, thinking that all things considered, Callen's reaction was extremely moderate.

'I'll do your stupid spy thing but me and school - it won't work.'

'We'll make it work, Mr Callen...'

Callen stopped in the doorway and turned back towards Hetty, throwing her a filthy, disbelieving look.

'Crazy...' Luckily the rest of his words were lost as he muttered them and left the room.

Hetty stared after him and shook her head slowly. Callen would be no different to the many other children she had trained . It would be a long and rocky road ahead for both of them, but she had a gut feeling that her latest protégé would make an excellent undercover agent, if he made it that far.


	5. Love, Lust or Infatuation

Love, Lust or Infatuation

'I think you've had enough pal.' The barman whipped his towel over his shoulder and placed both hands on the bar, leaning forward to stare at the inebriated man sitting in front of him. He had started his shift six hours ago and during that time, this man had steadily made his way through three quarters of his stock of bottled beer. Interspersed with the beer had been vodka and the barman had to admit that many veteran old soaks would have passed out by now. Most men came in to his bar to drink away their sins, to temporarily forget how damned horrendous and hopeless their lives were. This man though, was one he could not quite make out. Every so often he visited the bar but there was no discernible pattern. He looked about thirty, with scruffy brown hair and this time he had at least three week's worth of stubble. His intense blue eyes and constantly guarded demeanour gave him a dangerous air - certainly not a man to cross. He was reasonably well dressed unlike most of his down and out patrons - Levi's and black leather jackets weren't cheap - so maybe he was drinking away his sins...

Callen met the barman's stare, desperately trying to maintain an iciness that his eyelids just did not want to obey. He blinked slowly. Then blinked again. This time he succeeded in narrowing his eyes and threw a cold look across the bar as he slid the empty shot glass over it.

'I haven't even started yet.' Callen spoke slowly and in a quiet voice, well aware this was the most menacing he could be when he was well on his way to collapsing the moment he moved off his bar stall.

'I have the right not to serve you any more, sir.' The barman maintained his position. There had only been a few occasions when he had refused to serve customers. His bar was seen as a sanctuary, a safe refuge, but he did not trust the man in front of him. Bar fights might mean police, and police would lead to the Feds, once they'd given his place the once over.

The addition of the word sir was a warning Callen readily recognised. It was a cheap attempt at showing respect, meaning there was none. He honestly didn't care. He'd experienced enough disrespect growing up and sometimes in his professional life that it was like water off a duck's back. What he did care about was having another drink.

'I've been here all day. I'm paying for my drinks and haven't caused anyone any trouble. So give me another beer and a double vodka on ice.'

The barman shook his head and turned back to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. Flipping off the lid, he placed it in front of Callen who looked up expectantly.

'Beer. No spirits 'til you sober up a bit.'

Callen threw some random bills on the bar and muttered an agreement. He rested his head in his hands and glanced sideways. The bar was empty, save an old drunk propped up against a wall in the far corner. The dim lighting helped with the anonymity of its patrons - and also with the numerous drug deals and other illicit transactions which took place in the shadows. Callen occasionally visited this bar, mainly when he wanted to drown his sorrows without the chance of anyone he even vaguely knew being present. The bar was off the main strip in Hollywood, neatly cushioned between a liquor store and a video rental that doubled as a brothel. A pink neon sign flickered outside, the triple x now only a single. Girls wearing clothes that left little to the imagination crawled the curb on the main strip, enticing their prizes to something a touch more savoury that a quick encounter in a dirty alleyway. The liquor store and bar both seemed to be open twenty four seven. Callen had visited this bar as early as five in the morning and as late as three and not once had the shutters been pulled over either establishment.

Callen glanced back left towards the entrance. There were only two ways in to the bar, through the front or the rear and despite his mood, he had naturally sat where he could observe the comings and goings and make a hasty escape if necessary. Not that he thought he could move anywhere quickly at the moment. Damn, he was pretty sure he could not even walk in a straight line and seriously doubted if his legs would hold his own weight at the moment. He knew he would have the hangover from hell and pretty much expected to wake up in a nearby alley, the pain and suffering would serve to suitable chastise him for his stupidity. But for now, the alcohol dulled his senses and he needed more to erase her from his memory. He wanted to forget her, to forget how she had made him feel and to forget that because of her, he was now unemployed. It was his grieving process; anger, drink and then locking away the memories in a box and throwing away the key.

He had been warned against forming romantic relationships when on a mission, except when it was required to manipulate an asset, and Callen had genuinely believed he was at no risk of falling in to that cliché. Except this was now the second (or maybe the third) time he had broken that rule. Callen shook his head slightly, thinking he had never been very good at following rules. He liked to bend, break and sometimes overtly throw the rule book out the proverbial window, all the while making sure he wouldn't suffer the consequences of his actions. Ok, he thought, _sometimes_ he didn't give a crap about the repercussions; there were rules that were made for no other reason than to be broken.

Tracy Keller had just about broken him and it was something he was not proud of. It had been a straight forward CIA mission, a mid-term undercover operation in Uzbekistan with Tracy as his wife. They had been tasked with securing and destroying all evidence of the CIAs involvement in extraordinary renditions to Uzbekistan, after intelligence reports suggested the Uzbeki government were on the verge of publicising the very illegal agreement they had with the CIA and by default, with the USA. They had met each other a week before they had flown out, during which time they were thoroughly briefed on the case and introduced to their aliases. Callen had only ever known her by the undercover name of Tracy Keller and thinking back now, he realised that should have set off alarm bells in his head. From the moment they met, they were together all day, every day and all night; after all they had a legend to sell. They both worked for the New York Times and had met when David Keller moved from the Middle Eastern news desk to the Russian one. Initially in competition for the coveted lead journalist position, their editor soon recognised their potential for working together in an investigative role and the rest - as they say - was history. The Keller's married six months later and then four months in to their married life, they were sent to Uzbekistan to report on human rights violations.

It had been immediately evident to all that there was chemistry between Tracy and Callen and from their pedigree on paper, there were no doubts the mission would be a success. Both agents had a proven track record of achieving results; Callen was the senior agent, experienced in long term and dangerous undercover operations, mainly in Europe, Russia and the Middle East, whereas Tracy had meticulous skills in planning such operations. Their handler believed he had created the ideal partnership, with both agents offsetting each other's strengths and weaknesses. A fake wedding had taken place and the CIA had allowed them a bedding in period of two weeks prior to their journalistic investigations commencing. The pair had used the time to scout the city of Tashkent and cement their aliases.

Callen had quickly found himself drawn to Tracy; she was intelligent, funny and sexy as hell and it had been a long time since he had felt that way about anyone. Talking was easy and Callen found himself relaxing in her company. One romantic meal and several bottles of wine later and the pair were stumbling, hand in hand, back to their hotel. Callen pinched the bridge of his nose as the memories came flooding back. He did not want to remember the good times, yet he almost smiled as he recalled how he had pushed her against the wall of their hotel room and had kissed her, their bodies pressed tightly against each other, hands wandering...Bitch, Callen thought, slamming his hand on the bar and causing his still full bottle to spew over slightly. He caught the barman's eye and mouthed an apology. Bitch, he thought again. Tracy had played him, tricked him in to opening up and trusting her. They had lain in each other's arms and shared their dreams of quitting the CIA and disappearing to their own private island. He had broken his own golden rule of not allowing anyone to get close. With age comes wisdom. What a crock of shit, Callen thought. The only person Tracy had cared about was herself. The moment the operation had turned bad, she had made sure her ass was covered. She secured the data and saved herself. She had literally left him behind without any warning. He had continued to search for her, fear gripping him that she had been kidnapped or killed, when there was no trace of her.

Callen picked up his beer and drank long and slow. He had fallen heavily for Tracy but he was unsure if it was love. He wasn't sure he had ever been in love. He had certainly wanted her and there had been no denying the sexual chemistry between them. And he had been happy, they both had. Or at least he thought they had been happy together until he realised she had betrayed him, abandoned him. He had _trusted_ her. She _knew_ and that made her actions even worse. Unforgivable. So he returned the favour, leaving her at the safe house and disappearing from her life. In a fit of quiet, seething anger he had returned to the States and quit the Agency, fleeing to LA, the only place he could even vaguely call home.

It had been a three weeks now; one week recuperating in Uzbekistan, one week debriefing in Langley, jumping through the legal hoops required upon resignation and one week wallowing in self pity. His emotions ranged from grief at the loss of such a promising relationship, to full on rage at the audacity of her personal betrayal. He swung from one mood to the other within minutes and his head was spinning. He missed her company, her smile, her body, the touch of her hands running down his back. And then he remembered it was all for show. She had deliberately used his knowledge and experience for her own blind ambition.

Callen stood up and leaned against the bar to steady himself. Maybe the barman was right not to have given him another shot of vodka. He'd had enough. Enough alcohol and enough of Tracy. He would lock her away in his mind and forget about her. He'd also had enough of people abusing his trust. Tracy had persuaded him to open up and be honest. He had wanted it to work, wanted to believe he could have a normal relationship - even though they were undercover everything had felt so...real. Shit, he thought. He would make it a rule never to date anyone in law enforcement. Or to date anyone when undercover. Or when trying to turn an asset. Unless it was on his terms and he was the one doing the manipulating. Better still, he might just swear off women for good and immerse himself in work, once he found another job. Maybe Hetty was back in town. He hadn't seen her for a number of years and he should probably say hi. In fact now would be a good time to crash on the doorstep or in the garage. Callen turned to exit the bar, stumbling in to a nearby table before pushing heavily against the door, where the fresh night air hit him. If he could make it unscathed past the liquor store and triple x rated video shop, past the pimps guarding two practically naked prostitutes, he just might be able to hail a cab.


	6. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity

**Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity**

Life had not been easy for G Callen. During his twenty four years he had experienced much more hardship and suffering than most would ever have to endure during their lifetime. Abandonment issues, trouble with the law and his experience of thirty seven foster homes - many of which were abusive - had left their mark. Callen struggled to socially connect with anyone, he had a quick temper and smart-ass mouth. He trusted no one and was a loner. He was also an accomplished liar and thief, both of which were habits that had proven hard to break, especially when his guardian and mentor Henrietta Lange was keen on him honing those particular skills. A future career in clandestine operations beckoned and Hetty had been determined to make sure her young charge did not throw his life away.

Callen knew Hetty was never going to attend the graduation ceremony. She had made it clear that her taking him in aged fifteen was not on record. In fact she had made sure that all bar the most arbitrary pieces of information from his childhood - the fact he was an orphan, grew up in care and in numerous foster families - were sealed by a court order. The few years he'd spent with her had enabled him (with a lot of encouragement and patience from Hetty) to turn his life around. He'd struck out on his own again when he left for college and had rarely looked back. He knew they would lose contact. Hetty had always been a very busy woman, disappearing at times, and his new career would see him living wherever the Bureau sent him.

Callen leaned against the wall of the hallway and nervously tugged at the cuff of his shirt sleeve. He was not comfortable wearing a suit and tie and he suddenly started to second guess himself. How the hell had he ever chosen - or been persuaded - to apply for a position of special agent with the FBI? He would now have to wear a suit every day; not something he relished. Why had he ever let Hetty persuade him this was the right career choice. Oh yes, it was apparently a necessary sacrifice required to obtain the experience to move in to the CIA and clandestine operations..It wasn't as though he could bum around in his own clothes as a probationary agent. No, the FBI were bureaucrats through and through. Their special agents stood out a mile with their serious demeanour, lack of humour and strict adherence to the rules. Or at least that's what he had believed from the movies. His class mates had broken through the stereotypes and he had initially been amazed by their diversity. In retrospect, Callen also had no idea how he had successfully passed the never ending weeks of gruelling training. The last four months had been a challenge, not only in the way that all new agents experienced during the Quantico training, but Callen had issues. Deeply embedded issues that he had buried so far down he couldn't acknowledge most of them. It had however, taken all of his self control and patience to endure the immense amount of rigid rules and procedures he had to follow. He was the first to admit - unless he could get away with lying - that he had an issue with authority. But the alternative was dismissal and that had just not been an option.

'You look like a bear caught in a trap.'

Callen looked up sharply and caught the eye of Mike, one of his fellow students at Quantico. Mike looked though he'd been born in a suit, he was that comfortable which made Callen suddenly self-conscious.

'Just relax.' Mike was standing directly behind Callen in the queue for the auditorium and lightly rested his hand on his shoulder. At just over six foot he towered over Callen and he used his height to furtively glance around to make sure no one else could hear him. 'So, Orders Night?'

'Yeah?' Callen said hesitantly. Orders Night was a long standing tradition where one by one, the trainee agents stood at the front of the class and revealed their initial field office preferences, submitted during their first week. Next they opened the sealed envelope with their actual field office assignments.

'You got Washington, D.C. You were one of two people who got their first choice.'

Callen thought he heard a touch of jealousy in Mike's voice, coupled with curiosity.

'Guess they just want to keep a close eye on me,' Callen replied with a smirk. He might have said the words in jest but he had also wondered why himself. He'd passed all courses with top marks, surprising himself on occasion, particularly the interviewing and interrogation skills. There was a strong emphasis on building a rapport and making the subject feel comfortable before going in hard for the confession. Callen had equated it to lying and conning the suspect, which had made the task much easier for him personally. Hetty may have taken the kid off the street...

'And why would you think that? Do you think you're not be suitable for field office work or do you just think you'll muck up?'

No, Callen thought. It was not curiosity but some type of malice. Everyone in his class had gotten along fine and they'd all worked well together as a team, whether broken down into small squads or as a larger group. He cast his mind back to all his one on one encounters with Mike. They'd fought against each other in the boxing ring as they all had, and worked side by side on a domestic terrorism assignment. Professionally all was good. Personally? Yes that must have been it, he thought. A rare evening out, a few beers and Callen had revealed he had no family when everyone else had loved ones at home. Most in his crowd had offered him the usual sympathy and then ripped the piss out of him before finally stating they were now his surrogate family. Mike, he now recalled, had not embraced the scene with quite the same enthusiasm as the others.

'I was being facetious. Can you not read people after all that training?' Callen ensured he followed his slightly barbed comment with a wink.

'Oh I can read people all right Callen.' Mike leaned forward to ensure no one else could hear his words. 'I think you've been chosen to go to D.C. because they've seen something in you that is lacking in the rest of us.'

'And what might that be, Mike?'

'You think differently, adapt to change without batting an eyelid. And that makes you either potentially dangerous or just - well - full of potential.'

Callen turned his head away from Mike and raised his eyebrows in frustration. Sure he was about to graduate as one of the top in his class however there was nothing special about him and there were other trainees who brought with them better degrees and experience. He turned back to Mike and spoke conversationally.

'You do know the D.C. field office has nothing to do with the bureau's D.C. headquarters? I'm gonna be working investigations just like you.'

'Hmm.'

'And you know what? All those months of training, studying, not to mention the black eyes, bruises and hell, even being pepper sprayed, it was all worth it. In a few minutes we're going to take the oath and then graduate. We then become family, brothers and sisters fighting the same cause, wearing the same uniform.'

Callen wasn't quite sure he believed the family bit he had just spouted but he did know it was what Mike wanted to hear. It would give Mike the opening to make himself feel superior. It didn't bother Callen. He knew what he had achieved at Quantico and it was better than he could ever have imagined. In some ways he was glad Hetty wasn't here to say that she told him so.

'I haven't passed my training just to feel like I have a family, Callen, or to have a shared identity. I've joined to serve my country, to get low-life scumbags off the street and make America safe for law-abiding citizens.'

Callen smiled internally. He would have laid hard money that Mike would include his name when talking about low-life scum and was almost disappointed that he didn't.

'That my friend,' Callen smiled openly as he heard the doors to the auditorium open. 'goes without saying.'

'Silence.' An order came from the head of the queue and Callen schooled his face in to a suitably serious expression.

'You're a fraud and you're dangerous,' Mike whispered from behind.

Callen refrained from reacting. See, he thought, he had learned something during the intense training. He had learned not to react to dicks like Mike - and the world was full of them. There was also the point that he did not like the idea of being disciplined just before he graduated but he preferred not to think about that reasoning too much. Instead he held his hand behind his back and gave Mike the finger. Somehow that was more satisfying.

The queue began to move and the soon to be trainee FBI agents marched in to the auditorium. The group moved themselves in rows as they had rehearsed and remained standing. Once settled, the officials led by the director of the FBI walked to the centre of the stage. On command, the class raised their right hand and repeated the same oath they uttered on their first day as trainees. As Callen spoke in unison with his colleagues he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. This was the first day of the rest of his life, the key to his future and with this step, his world would open up and he could start to fulfil that potential which Hetty had seen in his fifteen year old self.


	7. Tis Better to Have Loved and Lost

' _ **Tis better to have loved and lost...'**_

The flight back to Los Angeles took place in silence. Well that was not strictly speaking true. The flight back for Callen took place in silence. There were the gentle, endless conversations between Jeremy and Amy Tyler, the freelance photographers who'd been held captive in Iran and their two children. As the minutes turned in to hours, the voices had become hushed and although he could not see them, he knew the children had eventually fallen asleep, snuggling against their parents, safe in their family reunion. It was not something he begrudged the Tyler's. In fact there was a small part of him that was secretly jealous. The small part of him that he kept hidden and locked away in the back of his mind. The small part where he wished he could permanently throw away the key. Jealousy was an emotion that rarely surfaced now. He had perfected the art of hiding his feelings many years ago, but occasionally there were cracks. Callen thought back to the first time his father had met Jake and recalled the gut punch he felt as he witnessed the interactions between them. He was very fond of his nephew and had been getting along great with his half-sister but there was a tiny, tiny part of him that was jealous. Jealous of how easy Alex had adapted to suddenly having a father, of how comfortable she was in their relationship. He was jealous of how his father played with Jake, realising how much love he had missed out on when he and his sister Amy had been abandoned. It was not an irrational emotion, he recognised that, but it made him want to keep his distance, just a little bit more. He had not found it easy to become fully immersed in his newly found family and there at one point he was ready to call it quits with his father. Since revealing their familial connections to Alex, their relationship had slowly improved, and Alex? She was so warm and open, so well adjusted considering the bombshell he and his father had dropped on her that evening, many, many months ago. And just like that, it had all evaporated.

Callen moved his gaze from the newspaper in his hand, of which he had not read a single word, to the seat diagonally opposite. Brian Bush of the State Department was in a hushed conversation with the female agent sitting next to him. The rustling of papers, the underlining of certain words and the fingers pointed at a laptop ensured there was no doubt the conversation was all business. Callen stared. His eyes filled with a mixture of loss, anger and hatred. Bush glanced up, feeling the heat and weight of the stare and acknowledged Callen before turning back to his colleague and their work. Callen squeezed his hands into a fist and forced himself to look out the window at the blackness. He knew the jobsworth was only following orders, just like he knew his father had made the right decision for himself and for the Tyler's. It was that selfless attitude which had made him stop in his tracks. The realisation, through his father's own words, that he had to let his father go, and that once again he had lost his father. Nikita Reznikov had dedicated his life to saving the lives of men, women and families, those who were in peril and wanted to escape for a better, safer life in the West. He had sacrificed his own family, his own children, to save the lives of others, of strangers. Callen blinked back the tears which threatened to form, subconsciously curling his fingers even tighter in to his fist, pressing harder until he began to feel his short fingernails breaking the skin of his palms and he focused on the physical pain.

A movement caught his eye and he looked up to see his half sister walking down the aisle towards her seat. Alex stared straight ahead as she walked and blinked heavily as she turned and sat down. There was no eye contact between the two and yet again, a small piece of Callen's heart ripped. She had said her goodbye their father and marched past Callen, barely glancing at him and shaking her head. He closed his eyes as he recalled the previous day's conversation. She regretted letting him enter their lives. Sure they'd had a few months of getting to know each other and now it had been ripped apart. She'd said Jake had stopped eating after his grandmother had died and the day his grandfather was taken by the authorities, Jake had cried himself to sleep. Callen felt for both Alex and Jake, he really did. But he also knew that kids were tougher and more resilient than adults realised, especially when there was a loving mother who would do anything to protect her son. He sighed as he knew he would have to keep his distance. His presence would only cause her pain and he would have to wait, wait until Alex was ready. Nikita had said that she just needed time and Callen feared that was not the case. He thought Alex blamed him, that he had betrayed her by allowing the human trade to occur. Blamed him for introducing her to her father and then for taking him away.

Callen had found his father, he had found answers, found more than he could have wished for with Alex and Jake. And he had also found that he had been right. All those years ago when he was bitter and angry at the world, believing he had been abandoned, unwanted by his parents...he had been at least partially right. He'd had a real shitty childhood and from the little he had learnt, his sister Amy had not fared much better. He had told his father he didn't think he could ever forgive him and even now he stood by those words. But he understood why; his father abandoned his two young children to protect them, sending them to the West to live the American dream. If they had been found with Nikita when he was captured and sent to the gulag, Callen knew they would have experienced much, much worse in the Romanian orphanages. They would have made the American welfare state feel like a slice of heaven.

Callen's thoughts were making his head fuzzy and he mentally shook his head to clear away the jumble of emotions. He began to weigh up his options. He knew Pavol Volkoff would transfer his father from Iran to Russia immediately. He was head of the FSB and with all Russian intelligence at his fingertips, he had clearly known Nikita was residing in Los Angeles on a conditional visa and under the authority of NCIS. It stood to reason then, that Volkoff now knew he was Nikita Reznikov's son. It almost provided Callen with pleasure, knowing that Volkoff had twice assisted him, the son of his enemy, on two separate missions to Russia. Future trips to the motherland would not be so easy. Callen was sure he was already on a watch list, particularly after their last mission. He absentmindedly wondered if he could be a future target for Volkoff, then quickly pushed the thought away. There would be repercussions for Russia if they targeted an American federal agent and it might even place Volkoff in the embarrassing position of being forced to admit his role in a plot to rescue missing CIA agent Sharov, aka Balinski.

Callen glanced again at Bush. If he tried to launch a rescue mission, his own career as a federal agent would be over, as would Hetty's. Bush had made it blatantly clear the FBI would be brought in to investigate how he was allowed a career with the federal alphabet agencies, when he father was a KGB officer. He would be an embarrassment to his country and the CIA in particular, especially as he had spent years working in Russia. They might even accuse him of being a double agent. And then there was Hetty. Even if Bush's threats were empty now the exchange had taken place, Hetty's final warning and the promise to terminate him with extreme prejudice would still stand. She may have then been talking about rescuing Arkady but he knew the same principle would apply to any attempt of his to rescue his father. She would never allow him to trigger an international incident and from personal experience, he knew Hetty would carry through her threats. This time he would have to control his emotions and stay within the rules of the game. No going rogue. At least not until the time was right.

The following hours saw Callen run scenarios through his mind. He could infiltrate Russia undetected with ease and he had an array of contacts from his CIA days and some 'off the books' contacts that were discrete and trustworthy. He had a variety of alias's created over the years that had never crossed the books of any federal agency and they were fully backstopped with passports and other documentation created by some of the finest forgers in the business. He also had savings and the contacts to buy illegal weapons, cell phones and other technical equipment on the black market. Sometimes it paid to live a portion of your life in the dark. The trickiest parts would be finding where his father was being held and his actual rescue. He could not risk using NCIS resources, this would have to all be on him and he knew the odds would not fall in his favour.

Slowly, Callen's mind began to drift. No matter how hard he tried he could not even begin to formulate a plan of any kind. His eyelids became heavy and several times he jerked awake just as his head dropped to his chest. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.' Callen almost smiled as he randomly recalled the famous Tennyson quote, although he was not quite sure it was applicable to family. A new day was finally dawning and he could see the sky beginning to lighten. Already the world had moved on. He recalled their final conversation and this time, he did smile. Hell, the man had even said he escaped once and he could do it again. Maybe he'd just better be on the lookout for an old Russian man named Igor. The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. His father _was_ an old man and Volkoff would torture and kill him, or maybe just leave him to rot away in a cell. He couldn't allow that. He couldn't move on, yet he had to, at least on the face of it. Once again he would have to lock away his emotions if only so he could continue to function.

He looked at his watch. It was another three hours until they landed. Another three hours of torment, of his mind whirring in circles and never getting anywhere. The only thing he could do at the moment was to give time and space. Hell, he felt guilty enough so avoiding her would be almost welcomed. He had caused Alex and Jake enough pain by entering their lives, the least he could do was to allow them to return to normality. Callen leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He knew sleep would not come and he was an expert in pretending. He locked the box in his mind and took out the key, tossing it to one side. He would not invite conversation on the subject and would shut anyone down who dared ask how he was feeling. Callen would do what he always did and carry on, regardless.


End file.
